The Sun Will Still Shine Tomorrow (31 page)

“It’s over, Jacob,” Claire said as she walked behind the bar. It was bizarre, Ashley thought to himself, even after everything that had happened, everything that had been said, Claire Macbeth returned almost zombie-like to her familiar position behind the bar. She looked at ease now; she looked different…at peace.

She began to pour a few drinks, placing them on the counter. They were quickly consumed. Gradually the conversations resumed. Small pockets of conversations, the Island Keepers split into two or three groups. Claire Macbeth and Jacob Moor spoke together in whispers and Ashley consoled Sheila Moor, persuading her she’d done the right thing.

It was like a normal night at the Ship Inn on Holy Island. No one even considered leaving the premises.

The police arrived within half an hour, two uniforms and two suits. This event was big. It was huge for a small community like Holy Island. Ashley thought they could have spared a few more bodies.

He noticed the red-haired young policeman that had stood guard outside Frank Short’s house. He gave him a nod as he made eye contact and the policeman reciprocated. Dearblah noticed him too, stood up and walked over to him.

The two suits made straight for Jacob Moor. Jacob engaged in conversation with them. Ashley watched and became aware of Jacob Moor pointing at certain individuals around the room: his wife, Debbie O’Hanlan and, if he wasn’t mistaken, Ashley himself.

He began to feel claustrophobic, began to get a strange, uncomfortable feeling. Nevertheless he felt compelled to talk to the policemen; Jacob Moor had the gift of the gab, God knows what he was telling them. Ashley would put his oar in, tell them what he knew, help them out a little with the beginning of their investigation.

Tam Dalgleish would help too and so would Holy John
.
It was time to make that call.

He stood up, made his apologies to Sheila Moor who still sat as if in a trance. He wasn’t even sure if she’d heard what he’d said. He walked over to where Debbie stood with the young policeman and the two suits.

Chief Inspector Roddam had received a phone call barely ten minutes after Berwick Police had received the call from Sheila Moor. The allegations she’d made were jaw-dropping. Roddam had gone to his garage immediately and, as he started the engine, he’d connected his hands-free mobile to the holder fixed onto the centre console.

He located John Markham’s number and pressed call.

“John, it’s me.”

John Markham had been enjoying a quiet beer in the police club at Market Street with one or two of his colleagues. Enjoying probably wasn’t the right word but it was a quiet night, quiet because John Markham had hardly uttered a word all evening. He’d been that way ever since Roddam had delivered the news about Frank Short.

He’d known Frank Short for as long as he could remember. His mother’s eldest brother had looked after young John Markham as if he’d been one of his own. The memories were long and sweet. He remembered the long hot days at the village bowling club where Frank was a member. The summers seemed so much better then and the old uncle and the young boy would sit for hours talking about anything and nothing.

He had never tired of Uncle Frank’s stories about the war or his general take on life. As John Markham entered his teenage years his pals ridiculed him about the amount of hours he spent with
auld Frank.
They’d organise day trips to Newcastle or Berwick or fishing excursions to the Farne Isles and, of course, his pals had started to take an interest in the fairer sex. John Markham was as happy as Larry sitting at the bowling club with his uncle.

He couldn’t explain it. Frank had an aura, he was a character. It was Frank who’d first introduced him to the philosophy of the Island Keepers. He’d go on about what an honourable noble organisation it was, founded in ancient times with a strong religious background. He remembered the look of pride on Uncle Frank’s face as he had overseen John Markham’s initiation ceremony into the Island Keepers. He recalled the face he would never see again.

Only, in the last few years, Frank hadn’t attended many meetings. One or two, perhaps an AGM. When John Markham pressed him he’d simply said he was getting too old, but it was clear he’d become a little disillusioned. John Markham sighed. He was sure to get a good send-off next week. He laughed inwardly; the islanders always did like a good funeral, particularly the Brotherhood. The Brotherhood would do him proud.

Chief Superintendent Roddam interrupted his thoughts.

“There’s been a bit of trouble on the island.”

“I know, I got a text from Ashley Clarke. He’s up there.”

“I’ll tell you all about it when I pick you up. We’ll have to go. It needs sorting.”

“We’re going up there now?”

“Yes, where are you?”

John Markham took a long drink from his pint glass. Trouble, he thought. What could be happening up there now? Two days ago a suicide, his own dear uncle, now trouble. He drained his glass. Pretty big trouble, he thought to himself if Roddam had been summonsed.

Ashley stood opposite Debbie O’Hanlan. She spoke directly to the policeman.

“This is David Fox, Stuart, the American author.” She reached for the policeman’s hand.”This is my boyfriend Stuart Mackie.”

Ashley frowned. She hadn’t mentioned that when he’d been standing outside Frank Short’s door yesterday.

“Your boyfriend… you never–”

“Mentioned it, no. I suppose I should have said.” She smiled. “He’s also an Island Keeper, Senior Deacon at the Berwick Lodge. Should have mentioned that too, I suppose.”

Her smile said it all. Suddenly it all fell into place.

Jacob Moor and Stephen Kyle walked across and stood either side of the suits.

Debbie O’Hanlan continued.

“But then again, Mr Fox, you never mentioned that you were an impostor, did you.”

For a second Ashley was stuck for words. He looked over the reporter’s shoulder, caught the stare of Sheila Moor who was listening in to the conversation. He noticed the puzzled look on her face. Jacob Moor didn’t look at all confused as he spoke.

Jacob Moor walked around the assembled group with an air of confidence.”We set you up with Debbie here.” He placed a hand on the journalist’s shoulder.

“She did a good job.”

“Not that good,” Ashley retorted. “I guessed she was in the mix too, somehow involved with the Keepers. I read her article on Tom Wilkinson’s disappearance. She slipped up, not once but twice in fact. I’m surprised the editor didn’t pick up on it. At the time she penned the article Tom had simply disappeared. No one knew he was dead at that moment in time except those that had killed him.”

Dearblah O’Hanlan tilted her head, waited for him to continue.

“Twice in the article she referred to Tom in the past tense. He was from Newcastle upon Tyne she wrote, not is – was. And later on in the article she did it again.”

Jacob interrupted. “Now who’s the detective, Mr Clarke?” He continued, “We needed to know how much you knew.” He smiled confidently, looked around the room and placed a hand on Ashley’s shoulder.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is not an American author but a bitter and twisted ex-policeman called Ashley Clarke. An ex-policeman who intended to bring our noble organisation to its knees.”

Not once in all the years undercover for the police had he ever been ‘outed’. It was a feeling he didn’t like. A feeling of impending doom washed over him, a feeling that rendered him speechless.

“When Debbie found out that the American author actually had an American accent you were rumbled. Of course we had suspected as much with all the questions you’d been asking. It just didn’t make any sense, didn’t ring true. We took a photograph of you when you were poking around the village, blew it up on the computer and e-mailed it to one of our brethren in Northumbria Police. Your disguise was quite good but I’m afraid a good friend of yours in Newcastle studied it in detail and you were found out: John Roddam, an old colleague, Chief Superintendent Roddam.”

Ashley cringed; that name on the headstone, an island name, it clicked somewhere in the dark recesses of his mind, Roddam, a Keeper. And it made sense: the inquest and the barriers he’d put up personally to stall the investigation.

Jacob grinned.”We have friends in high places, Mr Clarke... our Brothers are everywhere. God is good, the sun shines on the righteous. The Brotherhood comes before everything, Mr Clarke. The Good Lord always looks down on us; tonight has proved that yet again.”

“Amen,” said Father Thompson, his eyes raised upwards.

“It was me that took the phone call from Mrs Moor,” one of the policeman explained. “The great architect of the universe put that call through to me, Mr Clarke… the big man… God… whatever you wish to call him. Of all the people that could have picked up the phone tonight, it was a Brother of the island that Mrs Moor blurted out her story to.”

The policeman smiled. “The all-seeing eye, the Supreme Being.”

Jacob Moor laughed.”Ironic, isn’t it.” He walked slowly over to his wife.”Why did you have to interfere, my dear?”

Sheila Moor was visibly trembling. Jacob Moor stood inches from her. He raised a hand and caressed his wife’s swollen cheek. The mark from the ring was now clearly evident. A tear trickled down her face.

Sheila Moor hadn’t wanted to believe what she’d found in her husband’s safe. Even when she’d informed the police at Berwick exactly what she’d stumbled on there was a part of her that sincerely believed it was all made up. And even when she’d blurted it out to Debbie and the American author that was now actually an ex-policeman working undercover, she wasn’t one hundred per cent convinced. She was confused. She had grasped at a tiny piece of something that told her it was too farfetched to have ever happened.

But now she knew.

Her husband had always placed the Brotherhood first, always put an evening with the Keepers above all else: anniversaries, birthdays, whatever. Even their annual vacations twice yearly had to be arranged around his precious boys’ club and of course, church, every Sunday, without fail and a special greeting and a dodgy handshake from Father Thompson.

Only it wasn’t just a boys’ club, was it. She knew that now. The policemen standing in the room. All Brothers. Debbie O’Hanlan, one of them, it was clear that she’d been indoctrinated too.

She gazed at the barman, young Martin Dixon. His father, Godfrey, a Keeper, and his father before him. It was only a matter of time before young Martin came of age and followed in the family’s traditional footsteps.

And Claire Macbeth. She’d even been down to the temple with them, taking part in the ancient ceremony re-enacting the rape scene from three hundred years ago.

Jacob Moor pulled his hand away from his wife’s cheek, turned to Ashley

“It’s all true, Mr Clarke.” He cast an arm out in front of him, moved it from left to right. “All Brothers.” He turned to face Claire then Debbie O’Hanlan. “And not forgetting our wonderful Sisters too.”

Ashley looked at the reporter.”The original story, it didn’t ever exist, did it.”

“All made up, there wasn’t one,” she replied.”It’s amazing what copy and paste can do on a computer keyboard. You took the hook like a starving mackerel and now I’m afraid the barb is well and truly stuck fast.”

The policeman placed an arm around his fiancée and they both laughed at her analogy of Ashley’s predicament.

Tam Dalgleish hadn’t been surprised at the ex-policeman’s revelation. Okay, so it had been a bit dramatic, but a surprise… no.

His youngest son had been working. Working at his chosen profession, and a couple of things just didn’t add up.

Tam had tried knocking (literally) Gordon onto the straight and narrow, latterly by allowing him to manage a small engineering factory that Tam had invested in. It was merely a front, a way to turn dirty money into clean, and to pay a token amount of tax,
to be legitimate
. And yet, Tam had to admit he’d felt good taking half a dozen boys from the dole queue. They’d been boys like he had been all those years back, born on the wrong side of the tracks. He’d paid them a decent wage, no need to thieve and rob now and although one or two inevitably still would, Tam still felt a degree of pride in turning an insignificant number of lives around.

The factory had been losing over £5,000 per month before Gordy took over but it didn’t matter as it would be propped up by one or two of Big Tam’s more profitable businesses. Tam hadn’t expected the factory to ever make money, that’s not what it was there for, but, gradually, by accident almost, Gordon had turned it around.

He remembered the day with clarity. He’d visited the factory as usual on the last day of the month. He noticed immediately, and for the first time, that every single machine had been in use and this time the kids weren’t playing with bits of metal and steel. They were… working. Grafting like fuck they were, and the hairs on Big Tam’s neck stood on end. Gordon had been in his office, on the phone to some company or other about an order. He’d thrown the monthly cash injection in an envelope onto his son’s desk. It would replenish the bank account and help towards the wages.

Gordy had grinned.”Dinnae need it, Dad,” he’d said.”The bank account is in credit.” And then, “We’ve more orders than we can handle, I’ll need two more laddies and possibly someone to help me in the office.”